


bump in the night

by alongthewatchtower



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Episode One Rewrite, Female Nick Burkhardt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:20:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewatchtower/pseuds/alongthewatchtower
Summary: Nick thinks of the woman from this morning, face rotting away. With snake-boy, that makes two in one day. Either she’s losing her mind, or something decidedly weird is going on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What would a female Nick Burkhardt be like? How would she react to inheriting the Grimm legacy? Would the actions of others around her change because of her gender?

 

_“The wolf thought to himself, what a tender young creature. What a nice plump mouthful…"_

_*_

The sanitised, children’s novel version of Nick Burkhardt’s life, full of fairytales and adventure, would probably begin by saying that Nick Burkhardt was perfectly normal, right up until the moment that everything changed.

 

Except... not so much.

 

Nick has what she’s heard Julian (her handsome, intelligent veterinarian boyfriend) refer to in hushed tones on the phone to his mother as a _tragic past_. (Bless his little bleeding heart.) Julian is kind, and decent, and he grew up with two stable, straight parents in a safe, beautiful home, went to a good school, a better university, a picture perfect upper-middle class upbringing. Nick has the memory of attending her parents’ funeral at twelve, moving all the way across the country barely a week later, suddenly in the resentful care of her aunt, making a new home in tidy, nondescript apartment buildings where everyone keeps to themselves and nobody questioned why sometimes, the young girl in 7C shopped for groceries on her own, cooked dinner on her own, lived on her own. Nick doesn’t really blame Marie. She wasn’t a great guardian but she wasn’t an awful one either - merely absent, even when she _was_  in town. There was always money in the drawer to pay the rent, the utilities, the bills, to buy groceries and all the things a growing girl needed if she spent her money wisely.  

  

But Nick is not an idiot. She had figured out pretty quick after she and Aunt Marie moved to Portland that there was no such thing as a _travelling librarian_. What there was, instead, was a woman only thirteen years older than Nick who had to suddenly become the guardian of a quiet twelve year old. A woman who moved them away from a town close to the bright lights of the big city to a strange, folksy one where people seemed to embrace the weird, where nobody asked that many questions. Aunt Marie didn’t have friends, not in Portland, anyway. And the one time Nick, thirteen and curious and bearing pastries from the bakery down the street, had stopped by the City Library on her way home, the woman at the front desk said she’d never heard of anyone named Marie Kessler.

 

See, Nick is observant. She watches people, knows how much you can figure out about someone by the way they dress, the way they move, how they speak. When she was younger, her mother used to read her Sherlock Holmes stories, and Nick would practice her own deductions on the way to school. When people caught her staring, it was easy to make her eyes go wide and blush, to look away shyly. She decides early on she wants to be a Detective, and maybe she won’t solve crimes the way Sherlock Holmes does, but she thinks she can definitely help solve them all the same. She gets good grades, makes Marie’s excuses at parent-teacher nights, goes to the free self-defence afternoons at the Y, saves the money from her after-school job until she can pay for the women’s krav maga classes at the gym on Fourth Street. She doesn’t tell Marie, who drifts in and out, who returns home with bruises underneath her long sleeves, the stiff gait of broken ribs, who has knives in her room and a dismissive, somewhat disappointed look in her eyes when Nick talks brightly about getting an A- on her geography test. She doesn’t know where Marie goes, what she does. She doesn’t ask, either.

 

And when Nick graduates high school, when she enrols in her Diploma of Social Work, when she applies for entrance to the Portland Police Bureau Academy to get her Bachelor of Criminology and Justice and become an officer, Marie leaves four bundles of non-sequential bills in the kitchen drawer. Nick counts them with steady hands, sits at the recycled kitchen table she wrestled up seven flights of stairs by herself and plans out how long she can live off student loans and the twenty thousand dollars in the drawer.

 

She doesn’t see Aunt Marie for two years.

 

So Nick is not that normal, not really. So when she turns away from the jewellery shop window she and Hank are loitering outside (and Nick never really thought about getting married, but she accidentally found the ring box in Julian’s sock drawer - a most original hiding place - and knows she’s going to have to make a decision sooner rather than later) and Hank smiles at a woman across the street (blonde, Armani-clad, beautiful, makes low six figures, drives a BMW, is falling for a senior partner at her firm or someone similarly just out of her reach), when the woman smirks at Nick and all of a sudden her face twists and shudders into a decaying, corpse-like parody of her beautiful face, hair greying and old - Nick pauses.

 

She doesn’t scream or startle, she just goes very still, and watches as the woman shakes off Nick’s hallucination (and that beautiful face is panicked now, and how can she know that Nick’s eyes were fooling her, unless they weren’t, and what Nick saw is _real?_ ) and turns her face away hurriedly, picking up her pace so she’s soon out of sight.

 

“Go on then,” Hank says, clapping a hand down on her shoulder. “Tell me all about her,” he says good-naturedly, opening the car door to settle himself into the driver’s seat. Nick tells him what she deduced (minus the decaying face, of course), and endures Hank’s gentle ribbing on the way to the crime scene, but her mind is still back on that city street, that decaying face.

 

 

*

 

Portland is a weird little city; half bustling metropolis, half mystical woodland hippie paradise, but Nick loves it. She especially appreciates the way she can wear jeans and combat boots to work, that her comfortable henleys and leather jacket or army green coat are perfectly acceptable workwear. Their Captain (a handsome tall drink of water, he is, and he looks even better in uniform) is the only one in the precinct ever to wear a full suit, and even he usually forgoes the tie.

   

Nick crouches in her comfortable jeans and sturdy boots, and studies the severed arm (mid-ulna and radius, not a clean cut, but only one strike mark) that’s the reason for their presence out here on Sweetbriar Trail (no smell of decomp, only just beginning to attract insects, been there two to four hours).

 

“The rest of her is … uh, off trail,” their Parks and Wildlife guide says (solid, good in an emergency, never stares at Nick’s ass). He leads them to the shredded, scattered remains of a red hoodie. Hank notes the women’s shoe that denotes their vic as female, but Nick is studying the scatter of red cotton. 

 

“What kind of animal?"

 

Their guide’s face is solemn. “That’s why we called you,” he says, and crouches down with all the care of a seasoned hunter, taking care not to disturb the surrounding environment. “This was the only track we found."

 

It’s a boot print. (Male, judging by the size, and the impression is even, so it’s not someone wearing a larger shoe as a forensic countermeasure.) The whole scene is one giant indication of rage.

 

“Guess DNA’ll tell us if this is our case or yours,” Hank says, but Nick is already backing away from the scene. There’s techs and their little flags all over the place; there’s nothing more the two of them can do here without getting in the way or adding to the chances of compromising evidence. It’s familiar, though.

 

“There was another one,” she tells Hank as they begin the trek back to the car. “At Munson Creek Falls, about a month ago."

 

“Same deal,” Hank says. “Hiker and a bobcat.” 

 

They share a glance. “Bobcat wearing boots,” he adds. They both know that if they are connected, with the first one being ruled an animal attack, there’s likely no evidence remaining to tie the two together.

 

Nick stops, cocking her head to the side in an attempt to hear better, one hand coming up to brush her sweeping fringe back across her forehead (it’s getting long; Nick’s pixie cut isn’t so pixie-like anymore. She hasn’t had hair this long since the academy, but she likes the way it softens her features a bit, and it’s still easy enough to care for). Hank stops, unquestioning, giving her time to work through whatever’s just occurred to her.

 

“Music,” she says, and ducks off the trail.

 

The discarded iPod, most likely their vic’s, might lead to an ID.

 

Hank hums Eurythmics under his breath all the way back to the car.

 

*

 

Central Precinct Justice Centre is full of its usual organised bustle, a dull roar of clacking keyboards, protesting perps, someone arguing with Gloria at the front desk, assignments being handed over by the shift desk, someone swearing at the vending machine, the whistle of the auto-boil in the break room.

 

There’s a perp in handcuffs by Keller’s desk that eyes Nick up as soon as she steps into the maze of desks that comprises Major Crimes. She ignores him (mostly, she’s not stupid enough to think she’s completely safe, _ever_ , and watches the potential danger out of the corner of her eye), and he contorts his handcuffed self to watch her make her way over to her desk - Nick raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed, and the perp _hisses_  at her, nose going flat like he’s cosplaying Voldemort, baring a mouth full of tiny, needle-like teeth.

 

Wu collides with her suddenly stationary form in the walkway between two desks, and the moment is gone. When she looks back, the perp is a completely normal-looking asshole who turns away as if bored.

 

Nick thinks of the woman from this morning, face rotting away. With snake-boy, that makes two in one day. Either she’s losing her mind, or something decidedly weird is going on.

 

She pushes it to the back of her mind, and focuses on her search for violent offenders in the area.

 

*

 

Hank returns from the crime lab with a message he’s picked up on the way - a student called in that her roommate never returned from her run this morning. It’s way too early for a missing persons, but dispatch passed it upstairs just in case.

 

They interview the roommate (nervous, worried, no obvious signs of guilt) outside the dorm, in the crisp afternoon air where young, happy college students walk past. Nick doesn’t remember ever being that carefree. Hank asks casually what the roommate was wearing, and it’s a match right down to the pink Nikes. That nets them an ID, at least, but her parents are out of state and not answering the phone, so they call it a day when they can’t make the next-of-kin notification.

 

Nick knows Julian’s cooking tonight. It’ll probably be a delicious, elaborate dinner, with wine and candles and all the works, and Nick will smile and act surprised and her cold, sensible heart will thaw for her kind, thoughtful man.

 

*

 

Nick parks her truck on the street, as usual, because Julian’s little car is easier to reverse out of the driveway. The street is quiet, a chill in the air blowing leaves gently down the sidewalk of well-lit suburbia, but there’s something… off.

 

Nick’s not entirely sure it’s not her own apprehension. She loves Julian. They have a house together, a life. But she’s not sure if she wants to be his wife.

 

She looks around, sees nothing out of the ordinary, and sighs. Right. No use waiting out in the cold all night. But the house is dark when she steps inside, and quiet, the only light coming from the kitchen, where there’s what sounds like a knife on a chopping board.

 

Hesitantly, Nick shifts closer to the doorway, puzzled by her sudden cautious instincts in her own goddamn house -

 

And instantly relaxes when she sees the small figure seated at the table. No _wonder_  Nick was jumpy. Must’ve been her Marie-sense tingling. Unkindly, Nick wonders how long she’ll be staying this time, what excuses she has for the bruises she undoubtedly has.

 

“Marie,” Nick says, tone even as she steps into the kitchen. “When did you get here?"

 

“She was here when I got home,” Julian says, coming over to peck Nick on the cheek. 

 

“Sorry for the short notice,” Marie says, voice kind and apologetic, and Nick knows she’s not, knows she means _no notice_.

 

“What, you didn’t know she was coming?” Julian’s voice is somewhat skeptical, being of a family that actually _communicates_  like human beings.

 

“I thought I’d called Nicola,” Marie says, making her excuses, as her niece thinks _it’s Nick, damnit_. “Sometimes I think I’ve done something, but it turns out I haven’t."

 

“Is everything okay?” Nick studies her aunt, noticing the bloodless lips, the way her hands shake slightly, and realises with a sudden start that things aren’t. 

 

“Not as okay as I used to be,” Marie says. “I haven’t been young in a long time.” _About twenty years,_  Nick hears, _haven’t been young since my sister died._ Marie is family, and she’s unwell, but she and Nick aren’t close anymore, if they ever were.

 

“She had some pretty funny stories about when you were little,” Julian says, ever the peacemaker.

 

“I’ll bet,” Nick says, while Marie smiles innocently. Nick bets those stories never happened.

 

“Come and give us a hug,” Marie says, standing up and opening her arms (never really one for physical affection, was dear Aunt Marie). “We need to talk,” she hisses in Nick’s ear, thin, frail body betraying just how unwell she is. When she pulls away, Marie’s got that familiar assessing look in her eye, the one that always seems to find Nick wanting.

 

Marie leans heavily on her cane as they walk down the sidewalk. She says it could be months, weeks, days. Nick’s not sure how to feel. Marie has never been a constant presence, but Nick will miss her, and it’s strange to think that one day she simply won’t come back.

 

“There’s so many things I have to tell you,” Marie says, and Nick sighs. She doesn’t really want to hear Marie’s secrets. She decided very early on that she was better off not knowing.

 

“Why now? Why not sooner?"

 

“I couldn’t come earlier,” Marie says, sounding almost out of breath.

 

Nick crosses her arms. “Why?"

 

“Just listen to me,” Marie snaps. “There are things you don’t know.” 

 

_Yeah_ , Nick thinks. _I’ll bet._

“Things about your family.”

 

That assessing look.

 

“Have you been seeing strange things? Things that you can’t explain?"

 

Nick is honestly thrown for a loop. Of all the things she was expecting Marie to say, that wasn’t really up there. 

 

“I knew it,” Marie sighs. “This is all happening so much faster than I thought it would. When it happened to me, it knocked me on my ass. I couldn’t move for a week."

 

“What _are_  you talking about?” Does schizophrenia run in their family, or something? (She’s technically past the age where it usually develops, but it’s possible.)

 

“The misfortune of our family is already passing to you.” Marie is more serious than Nick has ever seen her. “I’m sorry - I know you love Julian, but you have to end it with him."

 

_Um, what_? 

 

“What?"

 

“You can never see him again. It’s just too dangerous."

 

“ _What_?” Nick repeats, watching as Marie’s eyes are drawn by something over Nick's shoulder.

 

“He’s here,” Marie says, stance tensing, as if readying herself for a fight, and all of a sudden Nick is glad she didn’t get time to lock her gun away before they came outside.

 

“Who?” Nick says, looking around without turning her head too much, unzipping her coat so she’ll be a quick draw.

  

Marie spins dramatically, pulling a long, gleaming _dagger_ out of her cane (what the actual _fuck_  is going on), and whispers hoarsely, “ _Hulda_."

 

Just as Nick is hoping that _she_ is actually having a psychotic break and her dying aunt didn’t just whip out a concealed weapon on a suburban street, there’s a muted roar and a man with a face like stone jumps at them, knocking Nick down even as Marie spins out of the way. His scythe - his _scythe_  - whirls almost too fast for Nick’s eyes to follow and Marie ducks, more agile than a woman her age should be, let alone one with a terminal illness, and slashes at him, provoking another muted roar, a strike with the non-pointy end of the scythe that has Marie’s chest making a cracking sound. Nick tackles him, but he rolls her off easily, cracks her in the face with the scythe, getting up to face Marie with a kick that sends her sprawling, and the troll-man grins, barking out a laugh as he raises his weapon -

 

And Nick shoots him, still sprawled out on the wet grass (three shots, centre mass, point blank), watching as his face ripples back into looking human, as he falls to the sidewalk, lying dead beside the still form of Marie.

 

Nick holsters her gun before she sits up fully, body in her calm, after-action mode. (She’s never _killed_  someone before. She’s shot at suspects twice, and been shot in the line of duty, but she’s never taken a life before.)

 

“Did you kill him?"

 

“Yes,” Nick replies automatically, crouching so she can checking Marie’s pulse, hoping absently that someone called 911, because she doesn’t have her phone on her.

 

“I thought I’d lost him. They’re after me,” she scrabbles at her neck, pulling a chain from underneath her shirt. “Never lose this. Guard it with your life. They’ll be looking for it."

 

Jesusfuck, just _what in hell_  is Marie into?

 

“Nick,” Marie says, breath coming hard now, blood on her lips (cracked ribs, possible punctured lung), “your parents didn’t die in a car crash. They were killed."

 

And the world just _stops._

The shakes that Nick has been suppressing through sheer force of will return with a vengeance, and Nick falls out of her crouch, back onto her ass, right there on the street. She’s suddenly aware of the pain all down one side of her face, the sweat or blood or both that’s damp on her temple from where troll-guy cracked her across the face (possible concussion, definite shock). She sits there and stares at Marie, dazed, through Julian’s sudden appearance and panic, the arrival of the EMTs, the removal of Marie onto a stretcher and into an ambulance -

 

*

 

“He came out of nowhere,” Nick tells Hank (concern, overwhelming concern as he kneels next to her and takes her sidearm, passes it off to Wu, who looks at her steadily and records her initial after-action report on his phone). “He had that thing in his hand, and went right for her. I had no choice."

 

“Take it easy,” he says (dependable, trusting Hank, who doesn’t know his partner is seeing impossible things and everything she thought she knew about her family is apparently a lie). “We’re gonna get a uniform to drive you to the hospital. Get your ugly mug fixed, and you can check on Marie. I’ll handle this."

 

“She said she knew him,” Nick says, letting him help her to her feet. “She said his name was Hulda."

 

“I’ll run his prints,” Hank reassures.

 

Nick looks over to where Julian is standing, huddled in his coat, on the other side of the police tape. He looks - he looks terrified. Her sweet, gentle Julian. _I know you love Julian, but you have to end it with him._

“You want me to come with you?” His voice is hesitant. (Knows how fiercely independent Nick gets when she’s sick, when she’s injured, knows the more he wants to keep her close and make her better, the more she needs her space.)

 

“No,” Nick shakes her head, winces at the sharp pain provoked by the movement. “I’ll be home as soon as I can."

 

_You can never see him again._

“Okay,” Julian says, watches as she’s approached by a cautious young officer, as she sits herself down in his patrol car. (Franklin. Good kid. Wants to work his way up to detective. Has an eye for it, too.) “Love you."

 

_It’s too dangerous._

_*_

Nick waits in the hospital corridor, one side of her face numb, butterfly strips over the cut on her cheek. She’s sketching endless troll-man faces in her case notebook, tearing the page out when she realises she might have to turn it in for evidence - nobody’s been by to collect her clothes yet, though she was swabbed for gunshot residue at the scene.

 

She doesn’t know what to think.

 

Marie admitted to lying about her parents for the past twenty years. (Marie also said people were _after_  her, but that was proven rather abruptly by the troll-thing with the fucking _scythe_. The troll-thing, the latest in a series of weird things Nick has seen today.) Nick sighs, slumping down further in the torture device known as a hospital waiting room chair. She doesn’t know what to think.

 

She’s shown in to Marie’s room when the older woman is conscious again and has passed her cognition tests; the body in the bed is small, frail, bruised. Marie turns her head to watch Nick enter, expression giving away nothing. 

 

“You saw him, didn’t you,” Marie says. “You saw who Hulda really was."

 

Nick exhales through her teeth, loud in the quiet room. “I don’t know what I saw. I don’t know what’s going on."

 

“We have the ability to see what no one else can. When they lose control, they can’t hide, and we see them for what they truly are."

 

“See _who_  for what they truly are?” Marie is talking in circles, being cryptic, and Nick wants to _shake her_.

 

“This isn’t a fairy tale.” _No, really?_  “The stories are real - what they wrote about really happened. You are one of the last Grimms."

 

Nick’s mind races. Fairytales. Grimms? As in, _the Brothers_?

 

"I know it’s a lot, and I wish I had more time, but everything’s in my trailer - there’s so much you don’t know."

 

She’s still not giving any real explanations, though.

 

“About my parents-"

 

“Don’t lose what I gave you."

 

Nick couldn’t care less about the necklace. “Marie!"

 

“You’re vulnerable now. You need to be careful-"

 

“Ms. Burkhardt?” That’s the nurse who let her in. “You’ve had more than five minutes. You can see her again tomorrow."

 

Marie looks at her, saying nothing, and Nick wants to scream. She’s vulnerable? Vulnerable to _what_? How can she be careful if she doesn’t know what she’s being careful _of_?


	2. Chapter 2

*

A curious tech in the crime lab translated some markings on the scythe. Apparently it reads, _Reapers of the Grimms_. This shit just keeps getting weirder and weirder. 

Hank, who winces when he sees her black eye, and hot, bruised face (but doesn’t comment, doesn’t treat her like he’s fragile), got an ID on Hulda - apparently he was wanted for assault, rape, and murder across six states. That doesn’t change the fact that Nick killed him, but it eases her guilt slightly.

“If you were going to shoot somebody,” Captain Renard says, closing the file on his desk, “You sure picked the right guy.” He looks at her steadily, but there’s no pity in his eyes. Nick did her job, and she did it well. (She likes that about the Captain. He never treats her any differently. Her first training officer treated her like glass, because she’s five foot three and female.)

“How are you doing? You holding up?"

“Yes sir,” Nick says, somewhat honestly. With all the recent revelations in her life, the fact that she’s just killed a man does kind of take a backseat.

“Your first fatal shooting is no small thing,” Renard says. “You’ll be required to see a police psychologist."

Nick nods. Procedure.

“And Nick? If you need to talk - my door is always open.” The way he looks at her makes Nick thinks he really means it, that it’s not just lip service.

“Thanks,” she says.

His eyes flick to the door, dismissing her. “Get some rest."

Nick almost snorts. Not likely.

*

The trailer is filled with things Nick’s never seen before.

There’s a weapons cabinet - a fucking _weapons cabinet_ , filled with sharp and pointy things, some of which look like they’ve been around since the Middle Ages. There’s an antique rifle that looks to be in perfect working order, a few small handguns. Syringes large and small, jars and glass containers of unidentifiable things, dried herbs and plants, filing cabinets full of unorganised notes, some old enough to be on parchment. But that’s nothing compared to the books. 

There are books everywhere, of varying ages, most handwritten, beautiful calligraphy surrounded by monstrous drawings. Each drawing is accompanied by a description of the beast - and they are beasts, monsters of men and women, sometimes in English, sometimes not. Nick took French in high school. Her translations might be a bit off, but she supposes that’s better than nothing. The German, she has no idea about.

Then something familiar catches her eye.

It’s the same decaying face she saw on the woman outside the jewellery store, greying hair, sharp teeth and all. The book calls it _Hexenbiest_ , referring to them as witch-like creatures, highly intelligent and cunning, beautiful in human form, identifiable by a dark birthmark under their tongues. It also mentions something about them working at the behest of royalty, and Nick’s head spins. 

It all sounds like fairytales. Probably for good reason, if the Grimms wrote the fairytales and wrote these books. Nick would be inclined to think they were _just_ fairytales, but she saw the woman - the _Hexenbiest_  - for herself, before Marie came crashing back into her life with a troll-man hot on her heels.

Julian stirs when Nick finally makes it inside to bed. 

“You okay?"

“Just couldn’t sleep,” Nick says softly. _You can never see him again. It’s too dangerous._  


*

DNA on the trail killer is inconclusive. The crime lab can’t tell them whether the crime was committed by man or animal - perhaps, Nick thinks, studying the scene photos, it was something that is both yet neither. She still doesn’t know whether she really believes these things exist, but so far all signs point to their existence. Perhaps they’re everywhere, and she’s just never noticed before.

They have a lead on the boot print, though. Turns out it’s a patented tread, only sold in a few places, and not that popular either. But before Hank can follow it up properly, Nick ducking out to the hospital, a call comes in that has them all scrambling.

*

Cases with children are the worst. 

A recent missing child, reported within the hour of her not arriving home, takes precedence over anything else, even the fact that Marie is suddenly in a coma. The doctors can’t explain it, but there’s also nothing they can do except be curious about the scars Marie carries (knife wounds, bite marks, a bullet scar, a few burns, the doctor lists, frowning and unsure), so Nick takes herself off back to work. She’s only going to drive herself crazy sitting at Marie’s bedside watching the ventilator make her chest rise and fall.

Instead Nick leans against her desk and watches the Captain give everyone from Major Crimes who can be spared the rundown, a photo of the missing girl blown up on the wall behind him. Cases involving children are the worst, but they seem to hit the Captain especially hard - he takes them all personally, as if every crime against a child in their city is somehow a failure on his part to protect them, personally, and all the officers exchange sideways glances as Renard gives them the facts. It makes them all even more determined to bring this little girl home.

This little girl, last seen wearing a red sweatshirt.

Nick meets Hank’s eyes. Yeah, they’re both dreading a scene with a tiny, torn-apart red hoodie.

When they get their marching orders and everyone breaks off into teams, Hank and Nick hang back.

“Captain,” she says, stepping forward. “When the college student was found? She was wearing a red sweatshirt."

“The one that was torn to pieces?” Renard’s tone is even, but Nick can see his knuckles turning white as his hand stutters on the projector. “Well, let’s hope it’s not the same guy."

It’s not until later, when she and Hank have split off to walk the trails in the park near where the girl - Robin - went missing that Nick remembers Marie’s warning.

  
_You’re vulnerable_.

Nick is suddenly very aware of how alone she is.

_You need to be careful._

The wooded park is silent, no animal sounds, no birds calling or insects chirping - it’s _too_ quiet, as if the forest itself is aware there’s a predator close.

_This is not a fairytale._

What if it is, though? Three victims, all last seen wearing red. Two torn to pieces, one missing.

  
_Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf,_  Nick thinks. _Maybe, me._  


She’s relieved when Hank finds Robin’s backpack and draws her attention. Now they have a crime scene, and Nick finds bootprints leading further into the park. Nick chases the trail, dodging around trees and trying not to snap branches and compromise possible evidence, until all of a sudden she breaks through the trees and she’s at the edge of the park, looking out onto a quiet suburban street.

And there’s no sign of the girl, or the bootprints. The trail is cold.

 

Until Nick looks up, studies the man who emerges from his house to check the mailbox (flannel overshirt, hiking boots, nervous temperament, hunching awkwardly to make his broad frame look less imposing), conveniently as a trio of kids ride by on their bikes. His attention is drawn by the noise and the shrieking laughter, and then he - _sniffs the air_? Nick watches as the man's face _changes_. His eyes burn red, wolf-like features emerging, pointed teeth showing as he seems a little too interested in the scent of the kids, curving claws clutching at his mail.

  
_Blutbad,_ Nick thinks. (From the German; _blood bath_. Drawn to the colour red. Known for being vicious and bloodthirsty, and for eating human flesh.)

"Hank!" Nick yells, crossing the street at a run. _Not this girl. Robin is not a meal._  


The Blutbad rears back, registering Nick's presence, and then he turns and runs.

Nick is faster, though, and tackles him into the grass of his front lawn. "Where is she?" She growls.

 

The Blutbad is silent, face pressed into the damp grass, stays silent even when officers search his entire house. 

"Hank," Nick says desperately, "I know she's in there - or he's got her somewhere else."

 

Hank has backed her this far, but with no evidence, Nick knows they can't push this guy much harder.

 

"What are we doin' here, Nick? What do you see in this guy we don't? He's got no priors. He's clean."

Nick can't exactly tell him he's a wolf-monster. "He fits the profile," she says, but her explanation sounds weak even to her, as she watches an officer uncuff the Blutbad, watches him rub at his wrists. "He's a loner, he's never been married, he lives across the street from a park."

"That's not going to get him into a court unless he sues our ass," Hank says, and they have to leave.

*

Nick has a bad feeling about the wolf-man. And it irks her, because it’s not a feeling based on anything rational, rather it’s because he has glowing red eyes and a face like a nightmare, like a  _Blutbad._  


That’s why she’s sitting in her truck, kitty-corner to the wolf-man’s house, ignoring the way her silent phone flashes with Julian’s missed call, watching as the wolf-man walks out his front door, sniffs the air, and wanders around the side of his house, faux-casual.

 

Nick eases her door open on silent hinges and makes her way across the street. There’s almost no light coming from the distant streetlights, and Nick makes her way carefully to the wolf-man’s house, hand on her gun as she peers around the corner of the neat little cottage.

The wolf-man is marking his territory - literally, pissing on his rosebushes. When he’s done, he sniffs the air again before zipping himself up, and going back the way he came, passing close to Nick where she’s hidden behind a tree.

The lights in the house go off, as if he’s finished his nightly routine (check the oven’s off, pee in the bushes to mark territory, set alarm) and heading to bed. 

 

Nick strains her ears, but the house is silent, and there’s no noise but a sudden unease prickling up her spine, and her hand tightens on her gun, knees bent just slightly -

 

Then with a crash of tinkling glass, the wolf-man bursts through the big bay window and rushes Nick. She’s quick enough to turn to face him, but he slams her against the side of the house, his full weight against hers, the snarl of an inhuman voice in her ear saying, “You shouldn’t have come back."

 

Nick looks into red eyes and headbutts him, twists her left wrist out of the grip that has it pinned against the house above her head, but Blutbad reflexes are apparently quick, because he wrestles it back up, and the growl disappears as he adds, “Okay, okay, okay, you can lighten up there. I’m just making a point."

 

“I might just make mine,” Nick grits out, and jams the barrel of her gun forward, where her free hand has it pressed against his vulnerable belly.

“Whoa,” the wolf-man says, taking a step back, palms raised. “I’m sorry. I just - I’ve never seen one of you before. Hey - you want a beer?"

Jesusfuck, is this guy _hitting on her_? Nick gives him her best scornful eyebrow.

"I heard about you guys all my life,” he says, at a careful distance. "Never thought I'd see one up close. A Grimm. Ha! What do you know?"

 

“What do _you_  know,” Nick says, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, now holding her Sig in a two-handed grip.

 

"Are you kidding? My folks used to tell me stories about you guys. Scared the hell out of me when I was a kid. How long you been at this? You seem kind of new. What, someone in your family just die?” Her presence is apparently giving the wolf-man (Monroe, she recalls from his statement earlier) a bad case of the nervous blab.

 

Her gaze is stony, but she can’t help picturing Marie in her hospital bed, and something of that must show, because he adds, "Look, I don't want any more trouble, okay? I'm not that kind of Blutbad. I don't kill anymore. I haven't in years."

 

Nick’s grin is vicious. “There’s no statute of limitations on felony murder."

 

“No, no, wait!” He raises his hands in supplication. “I promise, I never killed anyone outside of a fight, and now I’m on a strict regimen of diet, drugs, and Pilates. I'm a reformed Blutbad. A Wieder Blutbad. It's a different church altogether. You have no reason to come after me."

 

"I'm here because of the little girl that’s missing. Robin? I’m sure you’ve seen her on the news.” Nick puts a bit of menace into her tone. She’s not going to shoot this guy without proof, but clearly he thinks he might, the way he’s rounding his shoulders and giving her his best innocent face. "She walked right past your house, did you know? Bet she smelled good."

 

“You still - still haven't found her yet?” His voice stutters slightly. Oh, yeah, this guy knows more than he’s telling.

"You know where she is."

 

He panics. "Of course I don't know where she is! Did I not just tell you about my strict regimen?!"

 

Nick feels like growling herself. She doesn’t have time for this. “Tonight, in the backyard, you were marking your territory."

"I wasn't pissing on my fence for kicks."

 

“Because there are more of you around here. Whoever took her? Did so right outside your territory."

 

"I don't - I don’t bother the other Blutbaden, they don't bother me. I know they’re around, but I didn’t know they took the girl, I swear."

 

"I'm not a Blutbaden,” Nick says, shifts her stance in a way that she knows will draw attention to the fact that her weight is centred, her hands are steady, ready to strike. "I'm a cop. And if you know who's got her, you had better tell me - Right. Now."

 

Wolf-man Monroe hesitates. “I can smell - there’s a Blutbad that’s around often - he smells like blood."

 

“This is how it’s going to go,” she says, taking her left hand off her Sig to draw her keys out of her pocket. “You’re going to drive. Follow the scent. I’m going to keep my gun on you. You lead me astray, and I’m going to shoot you."

 

He goes, reluctantly, folding long legs into the cab of her truck, rolling down the window and taking a few deep breaths. “Oh, I am so going to regret this,” he mutters, starting the engine.

 

"If this is the same Blutbad that killed that woman in the woods,” Nick prompts as they drive, winding through suburbs to where close blocks give way to generous properties.

 

“He'll be good for a week, maybe ten days, tops,” he blurts out. "He'll just use the time to fatten her up.” Then he winces, darting a glance to her unimpressed face, as if only just realising how that sounds.

 

It’s no time at all before he’s looking increasingly nervous, and pulls the car over on a narrow road, where light is just visible through the trees.

 

"That's his place,” Monroe says, and shudders, red eyes and fangs out suddenly. He shakes it away, and looks at her, frightened. “Sorry. I just - I can smell him. And I don’t - I can't guarantee what'll happen if I go any closer. It's too dangerous.” He scrabbles to undo his seatbelt, hands moving just as fast as the words fall out of his mouth. "I might be on your side. I might be on his side. I might even go after the girl. I'm sorry.” He just about falls out of her truck. “There's nothing more I can do. I'm out of here."

 

And then he’s gone, off into the darkness.

 

Nick resists the urge to scream, and eases open the passenger door, slides out and heads towards the house. The property is ringed by trees, providing perfect cover at the property line but bare lawn between the trees and the house itself, the neatly paved drive crossing a small stream via a well lit little bridge. Nick ducks down the little bank, heading under the bridge, bending almost double to pick her way along the stream, which circles around closer to the house the further she goes. Nick raises her head cautiously, and almost startles and swears when she sees movement in the window of the house. There’s a man in the kitchen, humming to himself, clearly audible through the open window, setting some sort of pie on the windowsill like a goddamn fairytale, face rippling into one just like Monroe's wolfy visage. 

 

He’s familiar, Nick thinks, studying his profile intently. The realisation that she’d seen him just hours ago hits her like a blow - he’s the _postman_. The postman making his rounds on the street across from the park, tipping his head respectfully to the officers tossing Monroe’s house (and wasn't that strange, that he was walking the street even though mail had already been delivered - the twitchy Blutbad was collecting mail from his mailbox when Nick spotted him). Keeping an eye on them, no doubt. Nick shuts her eyes, trying to recall every possible detail - yes. She’s certain he was wearing boots.

 

Nick creeps back the way she came, slow and steady, not wanting to risk any noise. She’s back to her truck before she fishes her phone out of her pocket.

 

“ _What?_ ” Hank’s voice is bleary. She’s clearly woken him.

 

“I think I found her."


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Hank is there inside of fifteen minutes, looking rumpled but wide awake as he crosses the road to crouch next to her.

 

"Where is he?" Nick gestures to the house visible over the little bridge, through the trees.

 

"Where's backup?"

 

Nick thanks whatever deity might be listening that her partner will back her in this, even if he thinks she's taking risks. "You're the only one I called."

 

"What?" Hank's hiss is more resigned than annoyed, like he thinks he should protest just for the sake of protesting.

 

"I already cried wolf once," Nick says, resisting the urge to take the wolf metaphor further. "You think they're just gonna believe me? Come on."

 

Nick leads him down the bank to the stream, towards the house.

 

"How'd you find this place?" Hank whispers, and Nick winces. Let's hope the Blutbad doesn't have super-hearing.

 

"Uh, the boots," she whispers back. "I couldn't sleep, started looking at addresses, this is one of them."

 

Hank is silent for a moment, studying the house. "You better be right this time,” he says finally. "You saw his boot prints, right?"

 

They need probable cause. “Yeah,” Nick says, because she can’t exactly say _well no but he’s a Blutbad who eats children so that’s probable cause right there_. "Up there up by the house."

 

"Exact match?"

 

"From what I could tell, yeah."

 

They creep towards the house, for the element of surprise that’s going to disappear the moment they have to knock on the door.

 

*

 

The Blurbed answers their knock with a perfectly polite expression. "Good evening. Can I help you?” 

 

Nick fights the urge to scowl. Nobody’s that calm when police come knocking in the middle of the night, not even innocent people. She darts a glance at his feet. Bare. No boots in sight.

 

"Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Hank says, amicable smile on his face. "I’m Detective Griffin. This is Detective Burkhardt. Do you have a few minutes?"

 

"Of course. Would you like to come in?"

 

Nick pokes around while Hank gently quizzes the guy as to where he was when Robin went missing. He’s calm - too calm, and Nick doesn't discount the possibility that he’s stashed Robin somewhere else, but there’s something in his expression as he looks at her, something smug, confirmed by the way he starts humming as he moves about his kitchen.

 

“The song,” Hank says under his breath, hand making slow, unobtrusive moves towards his gun. “It’s the same song."

 

Nick realises with a start that it’s the same song from the first crime scene, the one playing on repeat. Sweet Dreams indeed.

 

Before Nick can turn, before she can draw her own weapon - the lights go out.

 

There’s movement in the dark, heavy footsteps and a shove that sends her flying back into the living room, her head colliding with the floorboards with a thunk, the impact jarring down her spine, and the postman is moving past her, then the sound of the front door opening.

 

“Nick!” Hank shouts.

 

“I’m fine!"

 

Hank takes her at her word, and Nick scrambles up, shaking off the momentary vertigo. There’s something odd about the rug most of her landed on, but she doesn’t pause, shoves the sensation to the back of her mind to catalogue later, heads to the door where Hank is yelling for their suspect to stop, legs braced and perfect two-handed stance with a clear shot, the Blutbad fleeing across the bare grass towards the trees -

 

Hank takes the shot, three times, and the Blutbad falls, curling in on himself.

 

Nick approaches slowly, gun drawn so Hank can holster his and turn the postman over. He’s wheezing now, blood at his lips (three gut shots, punctured lung, two to five minutes at best) but Hank ignores that as he leans over the dying man. “Where is she?” he demands. “Where’s the girl."

 

“Not gonna find her,” the Blutbad says on a shaky exhale, grin stretched across his face. His face changes at the sight of Nick. “Not gonna find her, Grimm,” he repeats, eyes glowing red and fangs in his smile.

 

“She’s in the house, I know it,” Nick says, watches the way the Blutbad grin falls ever-so-slightly. She remembers the oddness of the living room floor. “She’s under the rug."

 

There’s venom in his expression now, and the Blutbad snarls, opens his mouth to say something -

 

And dies, just like that. Nick really, really hopes Robin is under the living room rug.

 

*

 

Turns out the Blutbad had just turned the lights off, not cut the power, so when Nick and Hank enter to search, it’s with the ease of a fully-lit dwelling. Together, she and Hank lift the rug, which is heavy on account of the way it’s nailed down to the boards beneath, the ones that swing open on hidden hinges to reveal a frightened little girl, bound and gagged, eyes wide with fright.

 

“Hi Robin,” Nick says gently, reaching in to remove the girl’s gag. “It’s okay, honey, we’re police."

 

“Badge,” Robin says, her first word once she’s spat the wad of fabric out with Nick’s help.

 

Nick laughs, reaches for her where it rests in her jacket pocket. “Here,” she says, placing it in the girl’s tied hands. “You hang onto that, and we’ll get you out of there."

 

Hank holds the door open while Nick lifts her out, sets her down and starts to untie her. Neither of them flinch when Hank lets the floorboard door drop shut again - Robin’s firmly in shock, and Nick knew it was coming.

 

Robin stares down at Nick’s badge in her hands, little fingers tracing the gold shield.

 

“Are you gonna take me home?"

 

“Yeah, honey,” Nick says, snatching a gaudy homemade throw off the couch to wrap it around the girl. “We’re going to take you home."

 

“I don’t know how you did it, but fuck am I glad you did it,” Hank says from behind them, sitting down on his butt with an audible thud.

 

“Swear jar!” Robin says, and Nick and Hank both laugh, an edge of hysteria to it as Hank fishes out his wallet to give Robin a dollar.

 

*

 

Nick goes straight from Robin's house (crying child and parents, multiple thanks and a teary hug goodbye, the reluctant return of her badge) to the hospital, paperwork being put off for the morning (later in the morning, because the sun is starting to creep across the horizon), with Marie's words ringing in her ears.

 

 

_Hunt down the bad ones._

 

Nick notices the way Marie's hands tense slightly under the blanket as she sits herself down in the chair beside the hospital bed (as if Marie's tightening her fingers around a weapon), so she says lightly, "I rescued a girl from a Blutbad today."

 

 

Marie's eyes slide open, clear and aware. "You have a responsibility that you cannot ignore," she says, and her tone is heavy with disapproval, the same kind Nick's been hearing from the woman all her life.

 

"I couldn't ignore it if I tried it," Nick replies, crossing one leg over the other, feeling her bruises start to throb.

 

There's a light shining in Marie's eyes - she looks mad, raising her head up off the pillow. "You have to hunt down the bad ones, just like your ancestors did. There's a reason that you're a cop." Nick's seen the same unsettling look in the eyes of fanatics and true believers. "You have an ability and you must use it, no matter what happens to me."

 

Grimm or not, this is sounding too much like crazy talk. Nick sits up straight. "I'll go get a doctor."

 

 

"No!" Marie says urgently. "The Reapers followed me here. That means there could be more."

 

Nick's still armed, and she uncrosses her legs, shifting so it'll be easier to draw her gun if she has to. "How many are there?"

 

"Nobody knows. They're a secret organization dedicated to killing us."

 

"You mean Grimms? There are more like us?"

 

"Yes," Marie says slowly. "But I don't have contact with them." Unsurprising, given Marie's ability to alienate everyone.

 

"What about the things that I've been seeing? How many more of those are there?"

 

"There are more in the books than I've ever seen." Marie stops, coughs, and when she speaks again, her voice is thin and frail, and though she's no less manic, it's obvious her strength is failing fast. "You must not let the trailer be found. They don't know it exists. I hope I haven't done more harm than good by coming to you."

 

Nick sits at Marie's bedside until she falls asleep, an a nurse comes in to check her IV. 

 

 

"You look like hell, honey," the nurse says, but it's not unkind, and Nick gives her a tired smile and picks herself up, heading for the exit.

 

She’s halfway home when her phone rings.

 

 

Marie is dead.

 

*

 

Wu won’t let her into the ICU.

 

“I can’t, Burkhardt,” he says, looking pained. “You know that."

 

He’s got her held up near the elevator, not letting her further onto the floor proper. Behind him, Nick can see uniforms and scene techs weaving in between the bustle of the hospital ward.

 

“At least tell me what happened,” Nick says, in her best I’m-a-detective-don’t-fuck-with-me voice.

 

“Your Aunt was attacked,” a deep voice says from off to the side.

 

Nick turns to see her Captain, face serious, still bundled up in his coat, Detective Jameson beside him. Jameson’s good - Nick can only hope if there’s any _weirdness_  about Marie’s death, he doesn’t catch it.

 

“Marie Kessler struggled with her assailant, as yet unidentified, and managed to stab him fatally in the process."

 

“She was stabbed too?"

 

“No, Nick.” The Captain’s voice is gentle. “She died of a heart attack. She struggled with her attacker, killed him, and simply sat down afterwards and closed her eyes."

 

“Do we know-"

 

“You can’t be here, Burkhardt,” Jameson says, not unkindly. “We can’t tell you any more until we have something to tell."

 

“You’ll have a full accounting tomorrow, when we know more,” Renard says. “Until then - get yourself down to the ER. Hank says you haven’t been checked out yet."

 

Nick is exhausted, her face hurts, her head hurts, and her last living relative was just murdered - the fact that she was involved in another fatal shooting tonight has actually skipped her mind. She opens her mouth to protest, but the look on his face stops her from actually saying anything.

 

“Tomorrow, Nick,” Captain Renard repeats.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

 

 

“We need to talk, Nick."

 

Nick is suddenly very sure she’s about to get fired. She’s just been through her second post-shooting IA interview in four days, and she’s very aware of all the ways she’s violated procedure. She did, after all, rush in without backup, with her own gun no less (because hers still hasn’t been returned post-Hulda and his fucking _scythe_ ), and though she saved a girl's life, Renard is a stickler for doing things right - Nick attempted to circumvent procedure and not be checked out post-violent apprehension, then she was belligerent and demanding at the hospital, where yet another death connected to her occurred. “Captain, I-"

  

“This isn’t police business,” Renard says quickly, as if to allay her fears. “It’s something else.” He ushers her into his office, and closes the door behind him.

 

“I wouldn’t bother you if I didn’t feel it was important,” he says, sitting on one of the chairs in front of his desk, so that when she takes the other, they’re on an even keel. “I know you just lost your Aunt, and I’m sorry. But I can tell you why."

 

“You know who killed Marie?"

 

“Not the individual,” he starts, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. 

 

“Captain,” Wu says, sticking his head in, “the Mayor is downstairs working his way through Homicide with a full head of steam -"

 

“I’ll be right there,” Renard answers, not looking away from Nick.

 

“Right,” Wu says, as if suddenly realising he’s interrupted something important, and backs out hastily.

 

Nick is suddenly furious, so very frustrated that any time it seems like she’s even getting _close_  to getting an answer about _anything_ , she’s interrupted, put off, called away.

 

“Here,” Renard says, reaching for something on his desk. He scribbles out a note. “My address. Meet me there after work - say, seven? I promise I’ll answer all the questions I can."

 

“Seven,” Nick repeats, taking the paper from him.

 

*

 

Nick’s not avoiding her own home, not exactly, but when Julian looks at her with gorgeously sympathetic eyes, Nick hugs him back and goes to have a shower, ignores his hovering and lets him know she has to go out again, has to attend an IA follow-up interview.

 

It’s a blatant lie, and Nick feels guilty as she watches his face fall, but there’s a little mental voice that wonders if now is the perfect time to make a break. A life she isn’t sure she wants in the first place, a commitment she’s always struggled with, a dangerous family legacy making itself known, the death of the relative that supposedly raised her - Nick’s tragic life just got even more tragic, from Julian’s perspective. She’s sure that even when she breaks his heart - and it is a when, not an if - he’ll smile sadly and hug her and wish her the best.

 

Nick leaves her familiar house with her supportive partner and the comforting scent of her favourite pasta casserole in the oven, and buys a couple of spring rolls from the vendor in the market around the corner from the address the Captain gave her, eating quickly as her meal steams in the cold. Nick walks slowly, studying the people she meets, filling the hour until she’s due to meet the Captain.

 

Renard’s building is a modern steel-and-glass monstrosity with a doorman who is expecting her, a man by the elevator who checks ID before pressing the button for the floor she needs.

 

*

The elevator opens out onto a hallway with only three doors. Nick always thought Captain Renard came from money, and it’s evident in the subtle, expensive decor. Renard’s door is ajar, and Nick hesitates a moment before knocking, suddenly apprehensive. Gritting her teeth, she reminds herself she wants answers, _needs_  answers, and knocks on the doorframe.

 

Renard’s voice calls her in, and she enters to a spacious apartment done in the same sleek modern soullessness, a wall of windows looking out over Portland that takes her breath away for a moment, something possessive curling in her belly as she moves closer to the window to study the lights below. Something in her says this city is _hers_.

 

“I bought this place for the view,” Renard says, emerging from another room. “Nothing better than being able to look out and see all of my city."

 

“Except the part on the other side of the building,” Nick says, an automatic smartass.

 

When she darts a glance to the man now standing beside her, she sees his lips twitch into a smile.

 

“There is that,” he says. “But you haven’t come to look at my view.” He seats himself in a nearby chair, gesturing Nick to the one opposite. 

 

It’s a ridiculously comfortable chair, buttery-soft leather under her hands as she rests them on the padded armrests, but Nick ignores the comfort, and looks evenly at her boss.

 

“Who killed Marie?” Her voice doesn’t shake.

  

 

Renard looks back at her steadily. “I don’t know his name, but the design of his weapon identifies him as one of the Verrat, a powerful Wesen organisation established in 1945 that serves the seven Royal houses. It is their self-proclaimed mission to maintain stability within the Wesen world."

 

Nick doesn’t know where to start.

 

“Wesen? Is that a catch-all term for all the things I’ve been seeing?"

 

Renard nods. “It’s German - means _being_."

 

Slowly, methodically, Renard lays it all out for her, voice even and matter-of-fact. The transformations Nick keeps seeing are called a  _woge._ If she tries hard enough, she can force it out of most Wesen.

  

 

“Can I force it out of you?” Nick’s not dumb. She knows there’s a reason Renard is telling her all this. If it’s not an attempt to get her to see not all Wesen are evil and need to be killed, she doesn’t know what it is.

 

“You can try,” Renard says wryly. “My control is better than that."

 

“What - what are you? Is that a rude thing to ask?"

 

“Considering your ancestors would’ve just lopped off my head first and not taken the time to ask? I think I can sate your curiosity. My _woge_  is a little different,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “and to understand why, you first need a bit of personal history. I was born a bastard Prince of the House of Kronenberg, the only Wesen House of the Seven, to a Hexenbeist mother and King Frederick Renard. This makes me a hybrid, of sorts."

 

 

“You’re a _Prince_?!” Nick asks, somewhat weakly.

 

“A _bastard_ Prince,” Renard corrects. “Which makes me technically unable to inherit. It does, however, mean I have Royal blood - and a closely guarded secret is that Royal blood does not dilute. I can perform the woge into Regnant, just as I can woge into half-Zauberbeist. When it became obvious that, even as a child, I could become Regnant, and thus threaten the throne of my half-brother, Crown Prince Eric, I was exiled. Raised in Europe, I came to the New World in search of my own territory, and claimed Portland as my own."

 

“Will you show me?"

 

Renard hesitates, and it’s the first Nick’s seen him unsure of himself all night.

 

He stands, abruptly. “Very well."

 

Sean Renard closes his eyes, and it feels like all the air disappears out of the room. Nick’s focus is narrowed to the immense presence before her, tall (how did he get even taller?), commanding and absolute, features aristocratic and inhuman, his cheekbones sharper, bone-like horns twisting upwards from his temples and across his hairline to form a crown, the illusion of wings at his back that don’t seem to actually be present as shadows lengthen in the room. He opens his eyes to meet Nick’s, his very countenance commanding her to kneel before him, and Nick almost feels like she should -

 

Renard shudders, and looks away, features blurring back to human. “When a Wesen in woge meets the eyes of a Grimm - it is … unsettling, to say the least."

 

“Why?"

 

“You - to Wesen eyes, your eyes are black. Full of an infinite darkness, and a Wesen can see themselves - their true self, their most base Wesen nature - it’s all we see. It’s - it can be terrifying, if not simply deeply unsettling."

 

 

“And I’m a Grimm."

 

“You are Grimm,” Renard says. “ _The_  Grimm, perhaps. Portland’s Grimm."

 

“No _‘a’_?” she asks wryly.

 

Renard’s expression is faintly amused. “Does one use ‘a’ in front of the word ‘God’?"

 

“I highly doubt I’m God,” Nick snorts.

 

“No, you’re the bogeyman. The nightmare wesen tell their children about. Behave, or a Grimm will come and cut your head off."

 

“ _Kill the bad ones_ ,” Nick repeats, and when she looks up to meet Renard’s eyes, she knows she looks just as lost as she feels. “That’s what Marie said."

 

“That sounds very in-character for Marie Kessler. She had quite a reputation as one to behead first, ask questions never."

 

Nick snorts. “You try living with her,” she says under her breath, but from the amused look on her Captain’s face, he heard her.

 

"Not all wesen live within human laws. Some _are_  bad, for lack of a better term. Some are wicked, and cruel. Most want to live peacefully, to raise families and live as they always have, some in the shadows, others right out there in the open."

 

 

“ _Human_ laws?” Nick asked, catching on to the important part of that statement. “Are there wesen laws?"

 

“There are mine,” Renard says, matter-of-fact, prideful but somehow not boasting. “All wesen who live within my canton - my claimed territory - they abide by my laws."

 

“Or what?” 

 

“Or they are persuaded to leave."

 

“Or a Grimm comes and cuts their head off?"

 

Renard looks at her steadily. “I’m not going to lie to you, Nick. With you as Portland’s Grimm, with the two of us having stable ties - it will act as a deterrent. Both to those who would break my edicts, or challenge my authority, and those who would not take kindly to Grimm in their close proximity. Us being allies - it benefits both of us."

 

“And are we? Allies."

 

“I’d like to think so.” Renard leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “We’ve worked together how many years, Nick? We both want Portland to flourish, for its citizens to be safe, for those who commit crimes within its confines to be brought to justice."

 

_“Human_ justice?"

 

“Where applicable. Sometimes - sometimes there’s a difference between wesen nature and human justice. Not often, but I won’t mislead you."

 

Nick watched him for a moment, his serious countenance, his many responsibilities heavy upon his brow; this man she’s trusted for years with her life, to make decisions guiding their precinct, to shape the way they police their district of Portland.

  

 

“And what are _your_ laws?"

 

“Live within human laws. No exposing the wesen community - follow the Schwabenkodex - the Wesen Code of Swabia. No woging in public. Wesen disputes are to be handled far from human eyes. My word is final."

 

“Is it final for me?"

 

“You’re Grimm, Nick,” he says, sounding almost exasperated. "I couldn’t control you if I wanted to. I’d like to think we agree on a great many things. That we both have a conscience - that we both know that sometimes, doing the right thing doesn’t result in an arrest."

  

 

“You look the other way."

 

Renard looks at her evenly, conviction in his bearing. “Sometimes. Others, I’ve pointed human officers at wesen problems and trusted them to find something they can bring to justice. There are many things about this world you don’t yet understand. It’s full of messy politics, and grudges and traditions that go back centuries. I’ve done terrible things, or seen them done, or stood by while they are done, to do what is best for my canton. I’m not a _good_  man, Nick - I can ruthless, and cold."

  

 

“You’re a good Captain. And if you’re anything like you are with your precinct - you’re a good Royal, too."

 

Renard barked out a bitter laugh. “I don’t think there’s ever been any such thing,” he said. “But I appreciate the sentiment."

 

The conversation winds down from there. Nick still has questions, but the Captain assures her he’ll answer, and they’re both wary of overloading her with too much new information.

 

Before Nick leaves, Renard gives her a ring.

 

 

Not the kind of ring she’s avoiding at her and Julian’s place, of course - this ring looks like she could’ve found it in any one of a hundred local stores picked over by hipsters in search of something stereotypically unique. It’s a single piece of gold wire, stronger than it looks, that’s bent into the shape of three mountains clustered together, the perfect size for her right thumb - 

 

“Put it on the hand you shake with,” Renard says. “The tri-mountain design forms part of my sigil. There are many who will see it for what it is, and know that you’re under my protection."

 

“What do I give you to say you’re under mine?” It’s only half a joke.

 

“A Grimm and a Royal not only co-existing, but _working together_ in the same canton? It’s a given."

 

A beat, and Nick lets out a sigh, dropping her head back to rest on the edge of the very comfortable armchair. “A week ago, I would’ve thought you were crazy. I just - how could I _not have known_? About everything - what’s out there, who my family was, who _I_ am?” She shakes her head. “It would’ve made things so much easier, if I’d’ve known."

 

“Some things would have been harder,” Renard says. 

 

When Nick stands, Renard does as well, and Nick looks at him for a moment, almost lost. Where the hell does she go from here?

 

 

 Renard steps close, and Nick is suddenly very aware of his presence, a powerful, tall body close to her own, radiating heat. He looks at her steadily, and takes another step closer, so their bodies are touching, and gently, so very gently, like she's something precious, folds his arms around her. Nick feels herself sag, as if her body knows instinctually that he's safe, that he can take the weight, if only for a moment. She doesn't cry, can't cry, hasn't cried yet, but her eyes burn and she holds on to the back of his shirt with two hands, forehead pressed against a solid shoulder. 

 

"I'm sorry about your Aunt," he says, voice soft. 

 

Nick doesn't know how long they stay like that, with her hanging on for dear life, but it feels like an eternity before she steps away. 

 

*

 

The next few days pass in a daze. Between the Captain and Hank, Nick is talked into taking a week’s compassionate leave. It means she’s free to do things like finally fix the pipe under the sink, find somewhere to stash Marie’s trailer and avoid talking about anything of real importance with Julian, who’s still dancing around her, wanting to give her space but also wanting her close, and that's a conversation she's going to have to have sooner rather than later, but for now she lets it go.

 

There’s no service for Marie, and she spins a dozen little lies to Julian about how Marie wanted no pomp, no circumstance, because if Marie left a will she certainly didn’t leave it with Nick, doesn’t look to have left it in the trailer, and beyond mentioning in passing, when she was in hospital, that she should be cremated and the ashes disposed of, they’ve never spoken about funeral wishes. Nick sees Wesen everywhere she goes now, and the ones that recognise her back are either nervous or terrified, but most don’t, and she watches them go about their days, their seemingly normal human days, the feathered bird-looking woman at the dry cleaners, the snake-man at the bank, the unidentifiable muscly man in the crew doing roadworks near the house.

 

How the hell is she supposed to do this? Is she really supposed to be some sort of judge, jury and executioner?

 

*

 

 

On the way home from the funeral home, the urn containing Marie’s ashes belted into the passenger seat, Nick stops at an intersection behind a van with a  _‘What Would Buffy Do?_ ’ sticker on the bumper. 

 

She laughs so hard she cries, gulping big breaths around hysterical laughter, and when the light changes and the carr behind her honks its horn, Nick hits the accelerator and sails through the intersection to pull over as soon as she can, body shuddering as she doubles up with laughter, tears falling from her eyes.

 

What Would Buffy Do indeed.


End file.
